Will It Stay or Will It Go, Now? (5/15/09 Friday)

Thursday morning, before work, I was experiencing some of my usual issues of easy frustration, and I began to worry that the new me was fading away before I had had a chance to fill the role properly. I rode in with Stacey that afternoon and told her about the semi-transformation, describing it as my editor being asleep, adding, "He can die for all I care." I was nervous when we got to work. I haven't had a full day with Julie since I noticed the change, and I was afraid that what I'd told Stacey on the way in had violated my no-jinx policy. Plus, as comparatively jovial as I've been, I still have been reticent around Julie.

I didn't see Julie the first half-hour, and when I did I avoided eye-contact, though she didn't look my way, anyway. The next hour I was on holds and got up from my desk to move to Mary Lou's behind mine (which doesn't have a barcode scanner). Julie was approaching from her desk as I stepped into the lane. Immediately she saw me she staggered, startled, and squeezed her back against a sorting cart. We were at least seven feet apart. I pulled my chin to my chest, shook my head, and squinted at her quizzically. Then I laughed at her and sat down in Mary Lou's chair. Julie may have laughed, but I didn't hear it, and she didn't say anything.

As I processed holds I came back into form, chiding Mary Lou about one thing or another. She's an easy target, but she takes a joke in the proper spirit. I was a bit of a smartass when she asked me if I liked what I was listening to (Franz Ferdinand), and I replied, "No, I hate it. That's why I'm listening to it." It got a rise out of Bethany and Angie, but I immediately apologized to Mary Lou, who accepted it as "no big deal."

At dinner break I sat at my usual spot--the far table, back to the wall--from which I can see out the window on my left and the entire breakroom in front of me and to my right. I was alone when Julie entered and approached the first table. I looked up as she entered and stared into her eyes as she closed in.

"Hello!" she said loudly.

My mouth was full of sandwich, and I nearly emptied it with my laughter. I somehow swallowed and returned her greeting, at a normal volume, but with a chuckle. We did not talk.

On the desk the last hour with Mike, I told him that my feelings for Julie were "fading." Saying it aloud saddened me. It was an admittance I didn't know I was reluctanct to make until I spoke it, and when I said it I wasn't even sure it was true. There was--and still is--some denial at work: I feel I should believe my feelings are fading, but are they? Am I snatching at them as they turn to cloud and float away? Julie's picture is on my fender. I turn it over when I get to work. I've considered taking it off, though I don't want to. No, I won't. I want to look at that radiant face as I climb out of the saddle on the hills. It always makes me smile. If the love deserts me, I hope I still have that.